


Sing of beautiful things

by catmanu



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician), Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, blink and you'll miss it AXJ reference, i wrote this on a plane apparently that's a good writing environment, otp: in a week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-15 22:34:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18082202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catmanu/pseuds/catmanu
Summary: Two men who understand the beauty of living and dying meet at the House of Black and White.





	Sing of beautiful things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roosebolton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roosebolton/gifts).



> I wrote this manyyyy years ago (July 2015 to be exact) for my very best friend's birthday. Now that Hoziermania is in full bloom, I'm putting it up here for you all to enjoy! If ASOIAF/Hozier crossovers are your thing, that is.

He adopts the guise of A Man (how he, affectionately, thinks of the dead Lorathi noble) often.  Something about A Man’s style of speech feels appropriate, well-suited to the tasks he performs for He of Many Faces.  So he dons A Man’s face, his speech, and his thoughts yet again this afternoon.

The building is dark, but a man can sense it is pleasant outside, less cloudy, perhaps, less foggy than is usual.  A man likes days like these, when a sliver of sun just might catch the red of his hair and cause it to glow.

A man hears little as he walks through the corridors.  The lapping of water and the hushed hum of whispers hang in the air, but a man feels unsettled by this.  He longs for something to break this silence, something he has never heard before.

The House of Black and White has a small courtyard in its center; it manages to be even gloomier than the House itself, with ivy twisting itself over every grey stone surface.  A fountain stands in the center of the courtyard.  A man knows water must have flowed through it at some time, but now it collects dead leaves and drops of water from the clouds that hang constantly over Braavos.

But a man is fond of this courtyard.  In a house devoted to the god of death, the small space endures, its fountain forever standing, its ivy forever growing.  Sometimes, (and a man finds himself thinking, in these moments, of a bright-eyed wolf-girl) a man is fond of life.

The usual stillness of the corridors surrounding the courtyard is gone.  A man hears a soft humming unlike anything he’s heard before in these halls.  The hum is mournful, yet it sounds content.  A man can think of no better sound to hear in the House of Black and White.  He steps into the courtyard, his sandals gliding silently over the limp leaves that coat the stones under his feet.

“A man sings,” he says.  The other turns to look.  The beautiful-voiced one is one of the newest acolytes.  His face is longer than a man’s own, his limbs longer, his hair a mane of chestnut curls.  Some of the strands have shed onto his robes.  A man cannot place the home of this faceless one still new enough to wear only his own face.  He does not have the feel of an Essosi.  Westerosi, then.  The Riverlands, or the Reach.

“A man only hums,” the other says, his voice coming out calming and bright.  “But a man  _could_ sing, if a man had a place to.”

“Hmmm.”  A man sits down beside the other.  “A man sings.  Of what, hmmm?  Grey skies?  The fishmongers down at the docks?  This courtyard?  The Many-Faced God?”

The other stares at a man.  His eyes are deep brown; a man has not seen eyes so deep since he last looked upon a lovely girl’s.  “Of course, the Many-Faced God.”  A long-legged man shifts, tucking the long legs underneath him.

“And what does this man know about He of Many Faces?” a man asks.  “This man is new here.  There is much to learn.”

The singer smiles, his teeth crooked like the walls of an ancient holdfast.

“I know of the Many-Faced God,” he says.  “I know him well.  I’ve seen him in the fields, among the trees.  I’ve seen him in animals grazing, in deer running across the Roseroad at sun’s set.  I’ve seen him in flames and on people’s faces…He’s everywhere, you know.  Everyone and everything wears one of his faces.”

A man nods.  He feels something twist in his stomach.  It is enchantment that he feels.

“And all of this is what a man sings of?”

The brown curls stick to the other’s forehead in the damp air, and he pushes them back so a man can see his smile brighten his long face.

“I sing of beautiful things, of course,” he says, and a man leans close enough to smell the other.  A man smells grass, he smells sadness and sunshine.


End file.
